


Because Summer Will Come

by Silverine



Series: Altea Publishing House [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Editor!Matt, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining Matt, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Writer!Shiro, more fluff than angst I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverine/pseuds/Silverine
Summary: Matthew Holt is a young and enthusiastic editor for Altea Publishing House, a renowned editorial company. After working on a few successful novels, Matt is more than ready for his newest challenge: when Coran is promoted to editor-in-chief, he entrusts him with his favorite writer, T.K. Kuron. Being a fan of his work, Matt is delighted to finally meet the idol he imagines as an old, kind gentleman… but Mr. Kuron, A.K.A. Takashi Shirogane, is not what he expected at all, and his wish to make him write a bestseller at any cost could be the biggest challenge of his career... and also his personal life.For the Shatt Big Bang 2019, hosted byShatt Big Bang on Tumblr.





	Because Summer Will Come

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a beautiful project I've been working on together with the amazing [dailycollenholt,](https://dailycolleenholt.tumblr.com/) who made an awesome work illustrating this fic! [(Here, please take a look!)](https://dailycolleenholt.tumblr.com/post/185529845703/i-am-very-excited-to-share-the-illustrations-i-did/) Working with them has been a real delight too. And like always, I also have to say thanks to my beta kunfetti!  
> I hope you enjoy the story and the art!

“Are my ears tricking me? Is Coran Smythe finally granting me my life wish, or am I going deaf?”

“Indeed, my boy. Nothing is wrong with your ears. Now, on the other hand, your brain—”

Coran can’t even finish his sentence before Matthew Holt hugs him and squeals in his ear, so excited he even considers kissing his older colleague.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear I’ll do my best! I’ll help Mr. Kuron write an award-winning novel! I’m—”

“Now, now, hold your horses,” Coran interrupts him, stepping back and extending a finger just a few inches away from Matt’s nose for good measure. There are many reasons why Coran is being promoted from editor to editor-in-chief and this is definitely one: he knows very well how to deal with his eccentric co-workers. Matt respects him enough to shut his mouth at once, sheepishly, and the older man crosses one arm over the other, tugging his mustache with a stern expression.

“Listen, lad,” he continues, particularly serious now. “I’m entrusting you with one, if not THE best writer of this publishing house. You are good at this too. I know you have admired his work for years, and I think your enthusiasm is just what our Mr. Kuron needs right now. However—”

“Of course! We’re going to be a badass team!” exclaims Matt, but he immediately puts a hand over his mouth when Coran raises one eyebrow in warning. He hasn’t finished, and after clearing his throat, he speaks again.

“So, as I was saying, I think your extra energy will be good for him, but only as long as it’s not _too_ extra. Which you tend to be. Do you think you can tone it down, perhaps? For this poor man’s sake.”

 _“So, he really is a man, then,”_ thinks Matt, feeling his pulse run faster in excitement, which is distracting enough for him to ignore Coran calling him ‘too extra’. He just nods frantically.

“Mr. Kuron is a sweet and hardworking person, but he has certain… peculiarities that will require additional care from you, unless you want to sour the experience. I’m not talking about mere whims here, I mean issues that require to be dealt with carefully,” warns Coran. He tilts his body slightly to his now subordinate. “It’s not my place to share them, though. You’ll have to earn his trust. So, do you think you’ll be up for the challenge? And I’m serious, Matt, when I say it will be a challenge. Even if you’re a fan, it won’t be easy to make him produce a new story...”

Coran hasn’t even finished talking, but Matt is already digging into the mountains of reference materials, presentation cards and papers on his desk to fish for his inseparable Ipad. Among his things, however, he distinguishes the worn-out colors of the cover of Mr. Kuron’s first novel, Garden of Light, semi-buried within the nest of papers. Smiling, he grabs it instead, and his expression shifts to show absolute determination, the same that can be heard in his voice.

“I’m up for any challenge, Coran. You know better than anyone that this is a dream for me,” he declares, and he flashes a cheeky smile, winking. “I’m ready for anything you throw my way, so… shoot. What are these peculiarities?”

Coran narrows his eyes for a second as if reconsidering his choice.

“I only hope I’m not making a mistake.”

Matt scoffs. As if he was about to blow his chance to finally work with Mr. Kuron.

Not in a million years.

“You are not. And I’ll prove to you that your first decision as chief will also be the best one of your entire reign,” he promises, brimming with self-confidence and holding the book close.

Coran stares at the cover and then at him for a few seconds, before letting a soft smile appear on his lips.

“Well, then, my boy. But don’t say later that I didn’t warn you.”

 

* * *

 In the chill of the first days of Spring, Matt enters the café with shivers that may not be only due to the cold. He is full of excitement, replaying Coran’s words in his head again and again.

_“I’m arranging a date for you two to meet. Know that Mr. Kuron prefers to work at his residence, and dislikes crowds with a passion. Our main communication channel is e-mail, but he isn’t against video calls. So, take the chance and make a good first impression, will you?”_

Matt dressed up nicely and even combed for once his long chestnut hair, tied in a neat ponytail. He expects that the scar on his left cheek isn’t a bad sight — at least it always provides for an anecdote to tell and break the ice, and he hopes this time it won’t be different.  

Looking around the cozy shop, he rakes with his eyes through the people sitting here and there, but can't spot his target. No one resembles Mr. Kuron, or rather, no one resembles the image he has of him.

Which isn’t much, honestly, given Coran’s secrecy.

 _“You’ll definitely know it’s him when you see him,”_ he said. “ _He has this very... distinct air to him. I’d say… You’ll notice his white hair first.”_

So, in short, he is looking for a white-haired gentleman who can leave a strong impression, which is more or less how Matt already visualized him through his sophisticated style, since the first time he read Garden of Light and fell heads over heels with his writing. Adding the fact that he is an old friend of Coran’s, it’s quite evident for Matt that he is probably meeting a respectable older man, and he can only hope he won’t look too immature in his eyes. A writer has to rely on their editor for the partnership to work, after all.

However, after one last glance around, he concludes he must have arrived first because there’s no one in the small shop who meets such criteria.

No one except for a man sitting in a corner, whose appearance catches Matt’s attention immediately. He is, much like Mr. Kuron, greying, but his young features make it seem like an extraordinarily early phenomenon. High cheekbones, full lips and a pale complexion compose a sharp face tarnished by a big scar crossing his nose and cheeks that, though shocking, does very little to diminish the general attractiveness. A thick neck covered by a black turtleneck sweater gives way to broad shoulders and strong arms, ending in two big hands wearing black leather gloves, crossed in front of him in a tight clasp.

Now that’s what Matt would definitely call a striking presence, as in ‘ _that’s one hot man right there’,_  but when his gaze lingers on him long enough to cross the thin line between ‘polite curiosity’ and ‘creeper look’, he decides to take another glance around, a bit flustered.

However, when his eyes land on the man for a second time around, attracted like a magnet, they connect with brown ones staring back at him with an intensity that nails him to the floor.

That is, until the man seems to doubt for a second before raising a gloved hand, and suddenly starts waving his way.

… No way.

_No-fricking-way._

The young editor can’t keep his jaw from dropping when he realizes: he is actually looking at the one and only Mr. Kuron, and he is nothing like he expected, in the best way possible.

Absolutely astonished, Matt somehow convinces his feet to walk straight to the far corner, trying to compose himself in the way and controlling his crazy heartbeat. He stops next to the table.

“Good afternoon… Mr. Kuron?” he asks, trying hard not to stutter.

The man looks at him with a serious expression for a moment, before his features soften and shift into a small smile that leaves Matt inexplicably breathless. It must be what Coran said about his particular ‘air’ _._ That’s a way to call it, yeah... Though, personally, Matt would have gone for something along the lines of _breathtaking._ Or _stunning_. Or _..._

“Yes,” answers the now confirmed Mr. Kuron, standing up in all his considerable height and bringing him back to reality. Holy crow, he is tall _._ “My name is Takashi Shirogane. You must be Matthew Holt?”

“The one and only,” babbles Matt, and then immediately regrets it, blushing. It’s hard to concentrate on a serious answer when the real T. K. Kuron towers over him and extends his left hand so he can shake it, with a benevolent smile. He may or may not have held his hand for three more milliseconds than it’s acceptable in a first meeting, but Mr. Kuron — _Takashi Shirogane_ , Matt repeats on a dazzled loop in his brain — doesn’t show any sign of being annoyed by that, politely offering the seat in front of him.

When they sit down, Matt immediately realizes he can’t peel his eyes off his new assigned writer and that the whole conversation he had so well prepared in his head can’t even start, because his mouth refuses to obey his orders.

Is this how it feels being starstruck? T.K. Kuron may not be the most popular writer — asides from his first novel, which did very well, the rest of his work is more or less obscure — but, for him, this whole situation is equivalent to meeting his favorite celebrity. At least that’s how it feels, with this tall man who writes the most soothing prose, currently sitting across him at a table in a small coffee shop downtown, looking like some chiseled Greek statue.

But he is a professional on a delicate and very crucial mission. Opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water won’t help him earn his new writer’s trust, so, clearing his throat, Matt finally opens his mouth to say:

“So uh, did you have to wait for too long?”

“Not at all,” answers Mr. Shirogane, crossing his hands in front of him again. For some reason, Matt gulps at the sight of his dark leather gloves. Maybe it’s the contrast of their hardness with the kindness of his voice. “Coran told me you are a very punctual person, so I just arrived five minutes earlier.”

“O-oh… I see. Glad to know! Though now I wonder what else Coran said about me,” Matt’s laughter comes out nervously, but he supports his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand, and a smile appears naturally on his face as he slowly relaxes and gathers his usual sassiness.

Mr. Shirogane makes a short pause before answering with the same kind voice:

“He said I’d know it was you as soon as I saw you.”

 _‘That old weasel!’_ thinks Matt, blushing again. What does that even mean? This was supposed to be a work meeting, not some sort of… blind date… or something.

He takes the menu in front of him to distract the attention from his burning cheeks.

“Well, would you like some coffee while we discuss our work program? My treat,” he offers from behind the colorful piece of cardboard.

“No, please, no need to invite me. Besides, I like coffee, but... Makes it harder for me to fall asleep at night,” confesses Mr. Shirogane a bit ashamed, and Matt lowers the menu to look at him curiously, as a waitress comes to the table with impeccable timing. The writer orders a strange tea he hasn’t heard about before, and as Matt orders his daily dose of espresso, he makes his first mental note about his new author: Mr. Shirogane is not a fan of coffee, but he is a tea connoisseur.

After the waitress leaves, there is a short uncomfortable silence between them, but this is more like Matt’s usual business and he is slowly building up his confidence. First meetings with the writers are always a bit awkward, but with his experience, he can deal with that.

“So, Mr. Shirogane. First of all, I’d like to confess that I’m super excited to work with you, since I’m a big fan of your novels,” Matt says to open the conversation, trying to break the ice with a compliment and a winning smile. The smile wavers a bit when Mr. Shirogane lowers his eyes at it, even though his affable expression is still there.

“Thank you. It’s an honor,” he mumbles.

“No, no, the honor is all mine! And I’ll be  _really_ honored to help you publish your newest hit too! I honestly can’t wait to start working on it,” replies Matt rubbing his hands, and now Mr. Shirogane looks at him, but his eyebrows scrunch in the middle. After a pause, he says:

“Well, Mr. Holt. Thank you. However, I told Coran before that, actually… I was hoping the publishing house would just drop me.”

What drops at these words is Matt’s stomach. He grabs the table on the sides as he bends forward in shock.

“What?! No, why?” he asks, making the writer blink fast at his pointed tone.

“Because… I’ve taken too long to produce something new. I just have a few months before my contract expires, and nothing to work with. I don’t… I don’t think I can do this. And I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

“How many?” asks Matt.

Shirogane blinks, confused.

“What?”

“How many months do you have left,” clarifies Matt, impatient.

“Nine,” answers the writer. Matt sits back and laughs in relief, throwing his head back.

“Oh, it’s fine! I know we can do this! I mean, it’ll be tough, but I’ve seen worse,” he assures, smiling widely.

“But, really, Mr. Holt. I don’t think it’s a good idea. I—”

Mr. Shirogane stops speaking when Matt puts his hands together in front of him like praying and shows him his best puppy eyes, or at least what he considers like that.

“It’s common for authors to fall in slumps for many reasons, but they always manage to get out of them with the right push, for real,” he says trying not to sound as eager as he really is, but knowing he is failing anyway. He sighs and adds: “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to come off as pushy, but you are such a talented writer and I’ve always wanted to work with you. So, please… let me help you. If we can’t make it, we can’t. But we have to try at least, right?”

Mr. Shirogane’s dark eyes move between his, but Matt stands his ground. He has been called stubborn many times, and this is one of those moments when he can put that trait to good use.

The waitress comes back with their order just then, with impeccable timing once again, and puts the steaming cups in front of both men. Stirring his dark tea in silence, the writer seems doubtful for a little while longer, but then he suddenly chuckles, and Matt feels his face warming again at that sound.

It’s quite puzzling. He is not that shy around writers, it’s usually the other way around.

“I didn’t expect you to be so encouraging,” confesses Mr. Shirogane, smiling kindly. “I know it’s rough for editors in big publishing houses. I just don't want to waste your time and be a bother, honestly. Coran has been so good to me all these years… he deserves better than having a problematic author under his care, and I’m sure so do you.”

“Well, Coran said he was entrusting me with his best writer,” replies Matt, trying to relax and sipping from his cup while keeping the puppy eyes. “So… No pressure, but if I go back and tell him I let his favorite author quit on me, I may actually be skinned alive.”

Mr. Shirogane chuckles again.

“No pressure at all,” he says. Matt shrugs timidly and the writer smiles, sipping from his cup too. The editor notices he is using his left hand while the right one rests over the table in a somewhat awkward angle, but his observations are interrupted when Mr. Shirogane speaks again.

“Honestly, Mr. Holt, it’s not true that I have nothing to work with. I do have… something like a project in mind. It’s been there for a while, but…”

“But…?” Matt prompts him, unable to hide his anxiety. The writer lowers his gaze.

“It’s just… a bit complex.”

“Why?”

Takashi Shirogane puts the cup down to rest his left hand over his right wrist, and he looks right into Matt’s eyes with a strange expression.

“I’m a retired soldier,” he explains. “I saw a lot of things back when I was serving, and it has… taken me a while to overcome them. You can tell part of that struggle in my past novels. Coran was always trying to make me write something more… hopeful? He said sadness can be a brand, but it’s not what suits me. It gets old quickly.”

“And what does he know?” grumbles Matt, crossing his arms and pouting. Certainly, Kuron’s novels are always about loss and the unfairness of life, but there is something very beautiful underneath that theme, a way to portrait humanity in such a raw way that Matt simply loves.

Still — and his fanboy heart hates to admit it—, old Coran may be right. T.K. Kuron’s first novel did well, yet the other two kinda fell under the radar among the general public. The author seems to be aware of it.

“Coran knows what he’s talking about. I know he’s right,” admits Mr. Shirogane. “I’ve been working on my issues for years. In fact, my first novel was a coping mechanism. He gave me the chance to publish it, so I don’t wanna disappoint him. I should be showing some improvement already.”

Matt holds his gaze. For someone so young to be a retired soldier, something big must have happened. Suddenly, that big scar and the stiffness of his right arm make sense. He wonders how much time has passed since then, tracing a mental timeline, leading to an evident question.

“So… You wrote Garden of Light right after you retired, then?” he cautiously asks.

There is a pause.

“Yes,” answers Mr. Shirogane. And he doesn’t add anything else, even though Matt is sure he must know where is the question leading to. However, the editor decides to abandon that line of questioning. It may be too soon to ask about that.

“Uhm, I see. So, in short, you are afraid you can’t convey the right feeling in your new project?” he asks instead.

Mr. Shirogane nods.

“I’m not sure I can meet your schedule either,” he points out.

Matt hums. He realizes that, somehow, the conversation made him forget for a moment that his initial goal was to create a bestseller with this author he admires. Something in the snippets of his story softened him, and he reprehends himself mentally for that. Writers always have issues and self-doubts, always on the brink of quitting; it’s the editor’s job to keep them on track and make them produce something good… why would it be any different with this man?

Feeling his will to fight coming back to his overworked body, he uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on the table. Back to business.

“I get you. It’s true that rebranding oneself is hard, but if there’s a will there’s a way, you know?” assures Matt, smiling widely. “If you feel ready to write something like that, I’m here to help you. Actually, I think I’m the right man for the job. You said so yourself, Coran knows what he’s doing, right? He sent me for a reason.”

He even has the nerve to wink at the writer, who stares at him in silence.

“Just give me the signal, and we can start right now. Not gonna lie, it’ll definitely be a lot of work for both of us, and the publishing house is very severe with time frames, but if you truly aren’t quitting on us... I promise you we’ll make a book out of it in nine months.” Then, tilting his head, he adds: “A _good_ one, by the way.”

More silence. But Matt just waits patiently for his words to take effect.

“You are good at this,” finally says the writer, a bit confused. Matt smirks.

“That’s what I’ve been told, yes,” he replies, nonchalantly.

Takashi Shirogane glances around, nervous. But then he settles his brown eyes on Matt, and his handsome face shows a small smile, still a bit doubtful, but genuine.

“Fine. I guess it’s true I should at least try. I’ll be in your care, then, Mr. Holt.”

Writer and editor look at each other over the table for a couple of seconds before Matt snaps out of it and hurries to say:

“Yeah… I mean, yes! Thank you. It’ll be my pleasure.”

It makes no sense that after his previous display of business strategies Matt feels his mouth so strangely dry, as his heart jumps in anticipation before the news are decoded by his brain, but then he understands why. This is no ordinary deal. He did it: he is working with his favorite author, for real. Out of business mode, he can’t help but enter fanboy mode.

To hide his excitement, he gulps on what’s left of his coffee. Mr. Shirogane quietly drinks his tea in front of him, and Matt peeks at him from the border of his already empty cup, chiding himself for being so unreasonably happy before the prospect of such a killer schedule coming for him during the next nine months. It’s absurd, but, well… it’s not every day you get to work with your personal favorite.

When they finish their drinks, Mr. Shirogane discusses with him very superficially the plot he has been thinking about. Matt asks for a rough outline to start working. They also agree on meeting again in a couple of days. After that, and visibly tired, Mr. Shirogane says goodbye and leaves the shop, while Matt stays a little while longer. Through the window, his eyes follow the writer as he crosses the street on his way back home, but then he sees him stop. The author turns around and, looking back at the coffee shop window, he spots Matt and waves subtly at him. The editor waves back, but when Mr. Shirogane is out of sight, he crosses his arms over the table and drops his head into them, squealing.

That was… not what he expected at all, and the agitation in his chest is something he can’t control, a feeling familiar yet forgotten, something he can’t really name. He doesn’t need to, though. In fact, he should firmly ignore it. The only thing he needs to do now is to bring up his A-game to this challenge and help T.K. Kuron get to the place he deserves. Anything else, he will blame it on the adrenaline of meeting someone he has admired for so long.

Very long, indeed… he grabs his bag and rummages through its contents until he finds it. His very worn-out copy of Garden of Light, T.K. Kuron’s first novel. He opens it, searching for the first page, and reads the information on it. The first edition is dated eight years ago.

It means he must have been discharged from service around nine years ago, then, giving he said he wrote that novel right after it. He flips through the pages, wishing to read it once again, because the new pieces of information he got about the author seem to suddenly shed some light over the story, transforming it into a new experience. That setting in a broken post-war world, the dystopian chaos, the loneliness of the main character…

And one of the things that really make it a winner for him: that subtle, heartbreaking sub-plot with homoerotic tints. Permanently there, never taking the spotlight, but painting the whole story with a sensation of longing and despair. Matt’s eyes travel through the pages, and he remembers Coran’s words about Mr. Kuron’s ‘peculiarities’.

_“It’s not my place to share them, though. You’ll have to earn his trust.”_

He closes the book and exhales loudly. Does it matter, really? It’s not what’s behind the book what counts, but what’s written there, anyway. He should be worried that Mr. Shirogane wrote three books in the span of eight years, which is not the worst average ever, but definitely bad for their current ordeal against the clock. Instead, he is there losing time wondering about the author’s personal life, wishing to know more, like a fool.

A fool who forgot to ask Mr. Shirogane to autograph the cover, by the way. But he smiles, standing up from the table and stretching, eager to start working. He’ll have plenty of chances to ask for autographs from now on.

 

* * *

 In front of the dusty plate where he can barely read the number of the building, Matt stands confused, looking up. The ten-floor building looks grim and dirty, and so does the neighborhood. Though it’s not in a bad part of the city, it’s an old place. He judges it way too grey for such a creative person to be living there.

Well. At least that’s what _he_ believes, and it wouldn’t be the first time his assumptions are absolutely wrong. Matt scolds himself as he climbs the short stairs to the entrance and presses the call button for apartment 6D.

“Hello?” answers a deep voice. He can distinguish Shirogane’s voice even through the buzzing intercom.

“Good day, Mr. Shirogane! It’s Matt Holt,” he announces himself, holding a heavy bag under his left arm.

“Right. Uhm, come up, Mr. Holt,” says the author, unlocking the main door.

Among the things they discussed the day of their meeting, Mr. Shirogane told him about other stuff that may complicate their work. As he steps inside, he repeats them in his head.

_‘He doesn’t like crowded places. He can’t stand loud noises, though he is working on it, he said. He needs to exercise often and every Monday morning he attends therapy, though he didn’t say what kind of therapy. Some Thursday nights he walks three blocks down to a reading club he joined many years ago. The rest of the time, he mostly stays home, where he has completed all of his works. Also, he can’t type very fast. Please be patient with him.’_

He didn’t say so, but it’s also evident that he is not used to receiving many visitors. When Matt told him that as a developmental editor he prefers to work side by side with his authors, at least during early stages, Mr. Shirogane couldn’t hide completely his uneasiness, and then when Matt said that since he dislikes crowds and unfamiliar environments they should start working at his own home, the author pressed his lips. Aware of it, Matt promised they would change that once they had a solid foundation, but he could understand what Coran meant when he said this pairing would represent a challenge: Matt’s style is ‘fieldwork’, whereas Mr. Shirogane’s seems to be ‘hide in his cave and not see the light of day for months’, which could represent some trouble, indeed.

But work is work and, until now, his method hasn’t failed him, so... Fully conscious that he is being a bother, but determined to make things work, he just holds the strap of his bag, inhales and exhales to give himself some courage, and rides a very old elevator that gives him the willies until he reaches the sixth floor. The echoey hall is quite dark and he squints looking around until the creak of a door opening to his right calls his attention. He follows the stripe of light that cuts the darkness and an open door welcomes him, with a figure standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” says Mr. Shirogane, and Matt feels it again. That twist in his insides before the view of that tall man, this time wearing a grey sweater and light black pants. Doing his best not to stutter, the editor makes use of his businessman smile.

“Hello there, Mr. Shirogane! Thank you for having me,” he says, extending a hand. Mr. Shirogane looks at it and then, slowly, extends his own to shake it.

“Thank you for coming,” he replies, as the sudden cold contact surprises Matt, who looks down at that hand. It takes him a moment to understand before he realizes: that is a metallic prosthetic. He raises his eyes again and finds T.K. Kuron’s eyes on him, a bit reluctant. Maybe he is waiting for the question. Maybe he always waits for the question, and that explains the gloves the other day. Why show something so personal to someone you weren’t planning on meeting again, anyway?

However, Matt judges it’s better to not act surprised. He just widens his smile even more, shakes that hand vigorously and perks up, waiting to be let inside. Mr. Shirogane, maybe catching on his intention, clears his throat and, nervous, steps aside to let him in.

And Matt has a second realization: when they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, it apparently applies to everything, including apartments.

Certainly, it’s nothing like the lustrous mansion he imagined for his dream version of T.K. Kuron, but the apartment is surprisingly shiny. Through the square windows enters a lot of pale midday sun, and the walls are a pristine winter white. The floor is made of old, creaking wood, but it shines. It’s clean and nice, but as Matt steps inside, he can’t help thinking…

It also looks a bit empty.

The living room only has one sofa and one armchair, racks with books and a coffee table with some magazines, some more books and a laptop over it, all in disarray. That low table is literally the only thing that looks disturbed: the rest of the apartment is clean, but like the picture of a minimalistic living room in a catalog. The kitchen that can be seen from there looks quite abandoned too.

It’s impolite to stare so much, though, so Matt tries to stop judging and turns to Mr. Shirogane, who closes the door behind them.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, offering him the sofa. Matt, however, goes to it but instead of sitting, he puts his bag there and opens it.

“Thanks, Mr. Shirogane. I hope I’m not being a nuisance. I mean, I probably am, but it’s for a good cause, I swear.”

“Don’t worry about it,” answers Mr. Shirogane, smiling at him. He looks a bit stressed, but the smile is genuine. “Uhm, sorry, I haven’t offered you anything. Would you like something to drink?”

“Funny you mention it. I recall you don’t like coffee, right?” asks Matt, putting a cunning face.

“I have some for my visitors,” says Mr. Shirogane, scratching his neck. “Not like I have too many, but one of them is a coffee junkie, so...”

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry. I mean, I wanted to ask if any these are to your liking?”

Matt starts digging from his bag, taking out boxes and cans. Some smell sweet, others bitter. Shirogane stares at them confused.

“Uhm, what are those…?”

“Just trying to figure out your favs,” says Matt, shaking a box of classic earl grey. “I have a lot of these lying around and I’d gladly give them to you if you like them.”

Mr. Shirogane scratches his neck again.

“You, uh… you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really, I just want to make you feel comfortable since I’m barging in here to work and will probably be your most hated person from today onwards...”

“But, really—”

“Also, do you think we can pin this one somewhere?”

Matt unrolls a big roll-up whiteboard. He extends his arms to unfold it completely, and puts it in various angles, trying to find a place for it.

“In my experience, a board is essential for brainstorming. It can help you visualize connections and you can look at it after resting, which always brings some new air to things. If you don’t mind, do you think we can keep it here? If not, I can take it with me, though I’d prefer if you had it…”

“Well, I… I guess it’s fine?” says Mr. Shirogane, a bit overwhelmed. If he is bothered by Matt’s overbearing schemes, though, he conceals it very well. Recomposing himself, he proposes the white wall in front of the sofa. It doesn’t have any decorations, and there is no TV in the room either, so it’s not like it will be a hindrance.

They spend some time fixing it to the wall, Matt still rambling about the benefits of “watching an idea take form in inky traces”, and Mr. Shirogane slowly starts to relax. At least he looks more at ease, even laughing at Matt’s jokes and silly comments, and when they finally sit down on cushions in front of the coffee table — the author’s usual spot, he confesses—, with two cups of raspberry tea, the mood is cheerful and light. Then is downright funny when, as if they planned it, both men take a pair of glasses and put them on at the same time.

“Didn’t expect you to wear glasses,” says Mr. Shirogane, smiling.

“Well, unlike you, when I wear them I look like a nerd. At least that’s what the guys always say at the office,” he declares, grimacing. “I wanted to make a good first impression, I hope I’m not ruining it.”

The writer snorts.

“You aren’t, Mr. Holt. Don’t worry,” he answers in a playful tone that makes Matt’s chest flutter again. It’s probably why he hurries to add:

“By the way, you can just call me Matt. When people say ‘Mr. Holt’ I always think my dad is in the room, I’d rather be called by my given name if you don’t mind!”

This time is the author’s turn to blush slightly.

“Alright, Matt. Understood.”

“Great! Let’s get to business then,” says the editor, and Mr. Shirogane hands him the outline he worked on. It’s very primitive and kinda barren, but Matt soon stands up and goes to their whiteboard, writing a few generic words that he establishes as their theme. Seasons changing, hope, love, truth…

They spend a couple of hours discussing basic plot points and trying to pinpoint the main character’s quirks and traits. It’s too early to judge, but Matt intuits Mr. Shirogane is very good at worldbuilding, giving the easy way he can describe the place and time he intends to portray, but probably has trouble distributing vices and motivations among his characters since he describes them in a somehow hazy way.

For a first session, Matt judges this one like a success. He has to leave and go back to the office, though, so he stretches and calls it a day.

“I think we are going to nail this,” he says, turning towards Mr. Shirogane, who is taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He is supporting his metallic hand on the table, and Matt’s eyes stare at it for too long: this time, the author catches him. He lifts it and moves it, as the editor stutters:

“S-sorry. I was just wondering if it makes it too hard to type. You can always make audio scripts and we could get someone to type them for you.”

“No, it’s alright. It takes a bit longer, but I prefer it that way. I can’t stand recording myself, to be honest,” answers Mr. Shirogane, dismissing Matt’s worries with a polite smile. He stands up and walks until he is by Matt’s side in front of the board. “Thank you. I also think this will turn out well. You were right about watching the words take form in a board.”

“Right?” says Matt, buffing with pride. “By the way, I’ve been wanting to ask, how did you use to work with Coran?”

“Hm. I’d say… we’d meet a couple of times, and then he mostly let me be. He was very easy on me,” replies the writer, the shadow of a smirk appearing on his lips.

“Well, that’s too bad. I can’t let that happen under my watch,” says Matt, good-natured. Then, clearing his throat, he adds: “I only hope you won’t end up hating me by the end of it. I mean, you _will_ , all authors do, but like. I hope it won’t last past our goal.”

Mr. Shirogane turns his head towards him. Smiling, he says:

“I don’t think that’ll happen, Matt. I’m very grateful for your help.”

Again, his mouth dries at this sight. The fact that an author of his is so nice to look at should be a perk, but Matt is starting to fear it’ll be bad for his heart. Nine months of this could prove to be deadly.

“You, uh. You’re welcome. But this isn’t over, remember. So… same time and place next week?” he asks. Mr. Shirogane nods, and they shake hands.

“I’ll have more to show you by then,” he promises.

“And I’ll have you the references about tundra weather and decaying corpses in such climate for the opening scene. If the police ask I’m blaming you, though,” Matt warns him.

Mr. Shirogane's deep laugh accompanies him all the way back to the office, just like the ticklish sensation all over his chest, which he is starting to consider an annoying extra to this new job already.

 

* * *

 “Why didn’t you tell me he is so… _you know_?”

“So what?” asks Coran, tugging his mustache and feigning innocence.

Back in the office, Matt sits at his desk and his boss approaches him to inquire about his meeting with Mr. Shirogane for the first time. The man seems very amused by Matt’s reaction.

“Don’t make me say it, you devil,” grumbles Matt, blushing a bit and running his fingers through his messy bangs in distress, as he waits for his printer to obey his orders for once.

“Oh, you mean so handsome, yes?” says Coran, supporting his weight on Matt’s shoulder and looking at his clean nails. “Just taking some security measures. I wanted your interest to be purely professional.”

“It is purely professional!” barks Matt, angrily taking the copies his printer starts coughing up.

“As it should be,” declares Coran, this time in a warning tone. “I know you tend to drift off to dream realm too easily. I didn’t want you to start your own novel about your favorite writer and you before even meeting him. We don’t need that right now.”

“I’m a man married to his work, Coran. I thought you already knew that, since you are the one overworking me to death right now” grunts Matt, pissed off and making Coran laugh. However, blushing slightly, he also mumbles: “Still, I’ve been in love with his writing since forever and you know it, so I don’t know why are you telling me this now. It was your idea to begin with.”

The editor in chief puts a soft hand on Matt’s shoulder, who looks up at him. The older man is showing a sly smirk.

“I felt you were the right man for the job, Matt. You have enough energy to put his creative gears in motion again, unlike me. Now, don’t disappoint me! Just keep up the good work.”

Coran gives two friendly pats to his shoulder as a goodbye, as he heads back to his office. However, a couple of desks away, the chief stops in his tracks and raises his index finger as he says out loud and to no one in particular: “And keep it professional!”

“I AM a professional, goddammit!” yells Matt, hiding behind his towers of papers when the few coworkers in the room at that time start laughing.

He works with a ton of people and he hasn’t developed feelings for any of them in his years at the publishing house. He isn’t starting now and much less with one of his favorite authors.

He is a professional, goddammit.

 

* * *

 The ‘professional’ wakes up to the soothing sound of keys being tapped by slow fingers, the smell of coffee and the softness of a blanket around him. He sits up, startled, and Mr. Shirogane’s voice tries to calm him down.

“Sorry, Matt. Did I wake you up?”

“I’m— I’m so sorry! What time is it?” asks Matt, panicking. How could he fall asleep at an author’s house?! Granted, he was up since 5:30, attended two business meetings, had to video call another agent and talk to him for one hour and then had a meeting with another author because the acquisitions editor that recruited him couldn’t make it, but. _Still_.

“It’s just ten,” says Mr. Shirogane, standing up from the floor and heading to the kitchen. As Matt rubs his eyes and straightens his clothes, ashamed, he brings him a cup of coffee. “I assumed you had a rough day so I should just let you sleep for a while. Here, in case you need it.”

Matt feels mortified, but also very thankful. It’s been about a month and a half since they started working together, but Mr. Shirogane seems more or less accustomed to his weekly presence by now. Not an excuse for falling asleep at his house, though.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Shirogane, and thank you so much,” repeats Matt, taking the cup and blowing it, flushed to his ears.

The author smiles kindly. Then, as he sits back on his cushion in front of his laptop, turning his back to his editor, he says:

“Shiro.” A short pause follows until he adds: “My… friends just call me Shiro. It’s easier to say.”

Matt looks at him surprised, forgetting his cup is hot until it starts burning his hands after clutching it for so long. Putting it down and sitting by the author’s side, he clumsily hurries to say:

“Okay, Shiro.” It feels so weird, his stunned brain only manages to say: “You… you may keep calling me Matt, then.”

Shiro openly laughs while shaking his head and Matt thinks, astonished, that at least his idiocy can have its perks from time to time.

“Sure, Matt. I’ll keep it in mind,” says Shiro.

This new sly smile the writer is showing has a very dangerous effect on his poor editor, who just turns back to the mountain of references he was trying to study before falling dead asleep, adjusting his glasses.

However, his eyes drift constantly to that wide back and its owner working incessantly. He thinks it’s quite a feat that someone so reserved as Mr. Shirogane — _Shiro_ , he corrects himself with a pinch in his stomach — would be able to concentrate with a stranger in his house. He should be happy that they managed to get to this point, but on the other hand, it’s even more surprising that someone like him, so anxious and restless, would fall asleep in the middle of work.

Because no matter how soothing the atmosphere is, with the sounds and smells and the small space slowly but surely filling up with inspiring stuff and reference materials, this is still just… work.

 _‘Keep it professional’,_  Coran had said, and Matt has never failed him before.

He stubbornly shuts down that voice in his head telling him there’s always a first time for everything.

 

* * *

 Days, weeks and months can go by so fast when your schedule doesn’t let you breathe, and Matt can’t believe how five months pass in the blink of an eye. He is terribly stressed, with most of his authors apparently agreeing on being difficult at the same time, but at least Shiro has kept a steady rhythm and that takes a lot of pressure off of his shoulders.

In the beginning, the man was very slow and insecure. Matt had to explain thousands of times that calling some of his paragraphs ‘too cliché’, ‘too outdated’ and ‘make it less robotic’ wasn’t personal.

“It all comes from a place of love, I swear!” he repeated many times, always making Shiro laugh, at least, and his insides churn in secret.

And something in his words must have worked, because he started to write more steadily, and also more intensely. It is a subtle shift that Matt noticed, yet he hasn’t dared to discuss it with the author, afraid of making him self-conscious. It’s one of the things he has decided after getting to know Shiro much better these past months, through his constant visits, calls, and emails.

Certainly, Matt can’t deny there’s something… not-very-normal in this situation. He usually helps his writers in the first stages of production, and then just waits patiently for them to drop their drafts so he can destroy them.

With Shiro, however, he kind of developed a close partnership. It may have to do with the fact their meetings are always at the author's home. After a while, their weekly meetings on Wednesdays had to be moved around due to Matt’s unpredictable schedule and then stopped being just once a week. It all happened naturally.

“Should I drop by this Saturday?” Matt asked one day.

Shiro, distracted, frowned at his screen and vaguely answered: “Yeah, sure…”

“Great, thanks. I thought you may have something to do since it’s the weekend, but it actually works better for me this week. I have so many annoying meetings to attend this week…”

“Wait a moment,” Shiro snapped out of his work mode and looked at Matt, confused. “You are using one of your free days to come?”

“Yeah,” said Matt. He felt himself blushing a bit. “That is, unless you’d rather not? I know it’s a bit weird, but—”

“No, not at all,” said Shiro, rubbing his neck and looking somewhat shy. “I just… Are you sure you aren’t overworking yourself because of me? You barely have any free days…”

The giddiness Shiro's gentle concern provoked in him may be the reason why Matt answered so clumsily.

“Nah, don’t worry. It’s not really an effort to me. I-I mean, it’s work, but it’s also very… fun?”

The last word left his lips like a timid whisper, and he looked at Shiro a bit afraid of having said something weird. However, what he found was an astonished face that turned slightly pink, before the lips curved upwards.

“You’re right. It’s really been fun so far,” admitted Shiro, and his small smile was impossibly kind. “Are you used to hear that from your authors?”

“No,” replied Matt, smirking, “I’m more used to have them throwing holy water at me, calling me ‘demon’. This is a nice change, actually.”

The writer snorted, but the kind smile from before came back when he stated:

“I’m usually here. You’re welcome whenever you want, Matt. No holy water.”

A statement like that should mean nothing more than relief for the editor, proof that he somehow managed to earn his troubled writer’s trust, yet it brought another kind of happiness to Matt, the kind that made him skip all the way back to the subway station and give ten bucks to the sleeping homeless man outside it, just because. He does many things because of that feeling, except for one: naming it.

He’d really, _really_ rather not, for many reasons.

Instead, he starts dropping by Shiro’s house more often, and also bringing flashier gifts with him.

“I can’t accept this one,” declares Shiro when Matt brings an instant camera with him.

“You know my sister is always giving me her gadgets for free. It’s not like it cost me anything,” says Matt, enthusiastically reading the instructions.

“But it’s expensive anyway. And, honestly, you know I have no use for that,” retorts Shiro, crossing his arms while he waits for his water to boil.

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” bluffs Matt, with his know-it-all tone. “I brought it because this will help us in our little field trip.”

“Uh... What field trip?” asks the writer, raising an eyebrow.

“Welp. Since it’s Sunday and normal people use these days to get out of their dark offices and breathe some fresh air, I figured… you know. We should do the same.”

“Are we normal people?” asks Shiro, pouring water on his mug.

“No, but we are also stuck with that flowerbed scene — which I’ll never stop finding cheesy, by the way...”

“Alright, but what does it have to do with a camera?”

“I figured we could walk a few blocks to the park and take pictures, instead of keep using references from the internet. C’mon, it’ll be fun! Don’t you wanna stretch your legs for a while? We deserve a break.”

“Matt Holt telling his writer to take a break? Is everything alright up there?” asks Shiro, showing a playful grin that makes Matt blush.

“I’m an _overworked_ editor, Shiro. Please indulge me this one time,” sighs Matt, dropping his shoulders. “I need to stretch my legs. But I can’t force you to come with me… Well, I can try, I’m your editor, but I’m a benevolent one, so I won’t.”

Shiro laughs, and he walks the short distance to the window, sipping from his mug and looking outside. It’s then when Matt remembers Shiro still has trouble dealing with crowds and loud noises, but before he can apologize for his suggestion, Shiro turns to him and smiles.

“It’s true. It’s a good day for a stroll.”

And it’s then when it really hits Matt. The day when he can no longer ignore that uncomfortable but sweet pressure in his chest, making his work harder and easier at the same time. It’s impossible to keep the denial up when they are walking together under the light of the sun, and Shiro’s profile looks relaxed and beautiful under the sun rays, when he clumsily learns how to take a picture, when they laugh at the way people look at them suspiciously, two grown men crouched and discussing the right way to describe the swaying of the flowers under the wind.

It’s impossible to fight it and Matt is scared, but also excited. It’s been so long since he had anything similar to this feeling, and Shiro is such a special person, much like their whole story sounds too good to be real. Like a very cheesy story he would probably reject and rewrite, but it's real because life has a dark sense of humor.

Well. Nothing says the story has a happy ending, he thinks while staring at Shiro in the elevator when they are back to his apartment, both tired but visibly more relaxed. It’s fine, though. The realization itself is enough for now.

No, well, not _quite_ enough. There’s something else he has been meaning to ask for months and always forgets.

“It only has a few pics left, but you should keep the camera,” says Matt, grabbing his bag and crossing the strap over his chest.

Shiro sighs.

“Matt…”

“I want something in exchange, though.”

Shiro looks at the other man questioningly, as he takes something out of his bag and hands it to him.

“This is…” mumbles the writer, looking at the worn-out cover of the book in his hands. When he lifts it, the golden bookmark Matt always used to mark its pages falls and slips under the sofa.

“No, no, don’t worry!” laughs Matt, stopping Shiro from crouching to find it. “I’ll look for it later. But, uh… This is one of my favorite books, you know? So I wanted an autograph from the author. Think you can arrange that for me?”

Shiro stares at the cover of Garden of Light and then at his editor, before the corners of his mouth stretch into a soft smile, the same one that always makes Matt’s legs weak.

“Of course,” he says, and picks up a pen from his coffee table to write in the best calligraphy a left-handed man in training can manage:

_‘To a one of a kind editor, and a true partner in crime._

_T.K. Kuron.’_

This time Matt doesn’t skip towards the station, he downright dances like in a Broadway musical all the way back. He finds the same homeless man from before, now awake.

“Cheers, pal!” he says and gives him $20 because love is generous.

But he will call it that way just this once, while the adrenaline lasts. From tomorrow, it’s back to being just author and editor in friendly terms. Okay, maybe a tiny bit more than that. They can be “partners in crime”, as Shiro wrote.

He laughs into his pillow that night, like a child.

 

* * *

 Following this realization, however, troublesome ideas are bound to develop. Maybe Matt always knew it, and that’s why he never wanted to give these feelings a name.

Because even if he feels… strongly about Shiro — his new way to call it—, it’s quite amazing how he has gotten there while knowing absolutely nothing about the man in question.

He does know a few things, of course. About his habits, his humor, and some of his preferences, things he can appreciate in their daily communication. He also knows a few tidbits they have mentioned about each other’s families and childhoods, about places they have been to, and things they like and hate. Yet, Matt still doesn’t know anything about that void in the Shiro’s timeline where he stopped being a rebellious teenager and became a soldier, during which he lost an arm, was discharged from service, and suddenly became a novelist.

He knows nothing and he discovers new greed eating his brain, a desire to know everything at once and directly from the source. And it becomes unbearable the night he steps out of the elevator and heads to Shiro’s door, only to find it opening before he can even knock, while a raven-haired man is leaving the apartment. Shocked, Matt looks at him and then down where a shadow oscillates insistently: he finds a big dog wagging his tail next to the man’s leg.

“Uh… hi?” Matt says, right before Shiro’s face pops up behind the stranger.

“Oh, Matt. You came early.”

“Yeah,” says Matt, unreasonably bothered by that phrase. “I got off a bit earlier, so I thought I’d come right away. I hope it’s alright?”

The black-haired man raises a questioning eyebrow but Shiro smiles.

“Of course! He's my editor, Matt Holt. The one I told you about,” he explains.

“Again and again,” mumbles the man, and Matt opens his mouth to ask, but Shiro, oblivious, continues with the introductions.

“And this is Keith Kogane, a good friend of mine.”

“The coffee junkie, perhaps?” asks Matt, extending a hand Keith shakes while pursing his lips. Shiro laughs.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Keith in a dry tone, and then turns to Shiro. “See ya on Thursday, if you can make it.”

“I’ll try. Bye, Keith.”

“C’mon, Cosmo.”

The man leaves with his very well-behaved dog and as they enter the apartment and close the door, Matt can’t shake the feeling he knows Keith from somewhere.

“The name kinda rings a bell,” he says, hanging his jacket. “Could we have met before?”

“Maybe,” says Shiro, dropping on his usual spot. “He used to be a freelance proofreader. But he has written stuff, and after bugging him for years, I convinced him to submit one of his manuscripts. I think Coran will give him a chance.”

“Oh, that may be why! I heard we were getting a few newcomers this summer,” says Matt. “That’s very cool, I didn’t know you had writer friends. How did you two meet?”

“Well…”

Matt has learned to distinguish in Shiro’s pauses when he is trying to remember something, and when he is trying to measure something he will say. In this case, and due to his hazy eyes, Matt intuits this is the second scenario. But, to his surprise, Shiro tells him anyway.

“You know how on Thursdays I go to that reading club that’s near here?”

Matt nods. He remembers that was one of the first things he knew about Shiro.

“Well, we met there. That’s actually a reading circle for people suffering from PTSD and other mental issues. It’s hosted by the local University, and it’s been a great help for me all these years,” explains Shiro, looking at the books stacked on the table. He shows a small smile. “At one point, they encouraged us to try our hand at writing a story that showed our own struggles. I always liked to read, even while I was still serving, but I never tried to write anything besides a diary.”

“Diaries are valid,” Matt points out, and Shiro chuckles.

“Yeah, they are the most honest form of literature. That’s what our guide back then used to say… maybe you can guess who he was?”

Matt blows his bangs up. Did he have to be literally everywhere…?

“Coran,” he grumbles. “He always says that.”

“Yeah,” laughs Shiro. “He was one of our guides back then. He left some years ago, though. He's a busy man. But I was new at the group back then, and he liked my story. He encouraged me to write more chapters and then suggested me to try and send the manuscript to his publishing house. There was like a five percent chance they would pick me.”

“And… that’s how Garden of Light was published?” asks Matt, amazed at the story behind it.

“Yeah. It was very rough, though. It had to undergo a lot of changes that I didn’t always like, and Coran had to give me a lot of space for my mental health. But he didn’t drop me. That’s why I owe him so much,” Shiro concludes.

Matt twists his hands, uncomfortable.

“Wow. I must look like a jerk compared to him.”

“It was years ago,” smiles Shiro. “I’m… supposed to be better. You met me at a bad time, though, but I admit even then I was better than the first years. I have to, after so many sessions of therapy…”

“That’s… what you do on Mondays?” asks Matt, hesitantly. Shiro lowers his eyes again.

“Only once a month,” he says. “The other appointments are for physical therapy. For… For my arm.”

“Oh,” says Matt, but he doesn’t dare to keep asking stuff. He knows that’s a sensitive topic and, anyways, the amount of information he suddenly got is more than enough.

Or it should be. He is conscious of how he should be satisfied with what he knows, but instead, the greed gets bigger and nastier. Stealing glances at Shiro, he wonders what hurt him in such a deep way, and —though he will never admit it— why people like Coran and Keith can know and help, yet he, after all this time…

He is still just a stranger.

It’s this damn thought, nested in his brain like a parasite, what poisons his reckless head while he stares at his screen, late at night and back at the publishing house. No one else is there, which adds even more mischief to the way he hesitantly types in his keyboard the full name of the author.

_Takashi Shirogane._

He realizes how strange it is that a data freak like him would try this for the first time in months. He guesses he was too distracted by the man himself to go and try to dig for a profile behind his back.

His fingers hover over the keys before he adds “military” to his search. Then “officer”. Then, when he gets a clue, “pilot”.

And his determination starts to waver because it’s the first time he considers the possibility that maybe he isn’t ready for what he could find, with his uncanny talent to collect hidden information.

In a few minutes, he has a picture dated more than a decade ago of Shiro standing next to a man, both in flight suits, with the caption “Lt. A. Wright and Lt. T. Shirogane”, a list of Air Medal awarded pilots with the surname Shirogane among them, and a website dedicated to deceased soldiers and pilots, where he finds one A. Wright, also awarded with an Air Medal he never got to see.

He wishes he wasn’t so quick at making connections, when his brain remembers the unreachable Adam in Garden of Light, the only true motivation the main character has to walk the thorny road ahead, before realizing he was actually dead the whole time.

He wishes Shiro would allow him to do something about it, about all of it, but he hasn’t been given the right, and maybe he never will. He isn’t supposed to even know this, and he curses his impatient curiosity for this pain in his chest and the impotence of being outside the bigger picture.

Closing his eyes and leaning back on his creaky chair, Matt allows himself to despair for a few minutes before regaining his composure. He remembers how the theme Shiro picked for his current novel is the unavoidable cycle of seasons and the protagonist’s journey to learn how to let go of the past.

It must mean something. It must mean _healing._  Matt has been part of it, and he intends to keep it that way until they finish that book. And, if he is given the chance, he’ll stay close even after that.

But for now, he refills himself with determination, closing all tabs and going back to his references. They are on the right path, and most importantly: together. Whatever could happen after they finish the novel is not important right now, and Matt focuses back on what truly matters, even if this new info nests in his chest in the form of a new permanent uneasiness he brought on himself.

 

* * *

 But when things have to happen, they just happen, and against all of Matt’s efforts, everything changes unexpectedly a chilly autumn night. He arrives at the apartment very tired but wishing to see Shiro before going home. Of course, he keeps that part to himself.

“Keith was here?” asks Matt, noticing the two empty mugs and plates on the coffee table, as he leaves his bag on the couch and stretches his stiff arms after a long day.

“Yeah. He left quickly, though. Said he came to see me before the final countdown starts and I can’t afford to receive any more visitors,” says Shiro, amused.

“Wise guy. We are less than two months away from the deadline, you better brace yourself for that. You may not see anyone for a while,” Matt warns him.

“Except for you,” says Shiro.

“Except for me,” confirms the editor, putting his hands on his waist and wiggling his eyebrows. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

“I wouldn’t try to,” retorts Shiro.  

Matt has to turn around to hide his blushing, and he faces the wall that over the past months became an improvised shrine for their story. The whiteboard can barely fit any more lines and words, precariously extended by white pieces of paper pinned here and there when space wasn’t enough, and the strings are full of the pictures, wrinkly pages from magazines, printed images and stuff from the internet. A few months back it would have been hard to believe they could get to this point. Matt, still flushed, carefully touches the instant pictures they took weeks ago.

“You know, much like our Ed, you’re becoming really sassy. Seems like he’s not the only one learning a lot from Agathion and Pearl.”

“I have my own Pearl nearby now,” answers the writer, and Matt looks at him, surprised. Definitely, Shiro’s confident self is an  _experience_ , but the problem is that Matt is forced to worry about his heart rate whenever he comes out.

“You are trying to mock me, but I’m actually flattered. Pearl is my favorite character, thank you very much,” he tries to defend himself, but it’s no use. Shiro leans on the table and rests his chin on his hand, smiling.

“She's my favorite too, Mr. Holt. I don’t know where you’re trying to get to, but you should just give up and take the compliment,” he says, murdering any remains of Matt’s quick wit. He gives up on hiding his red cheeks, crossing his arms and pouting.

“To think the day you out-sass me would come. We should commemorate such a joyous occasion.”

“How?” asks Shiro, as Matt sits next to him. The editor looks around, and an idea comes to mind on how to get back at him, at least a bit.

“A picture! Let’s take a selfie with this one,” says Matt, grabbing the polaroid lying on the table, semi-buried in papers. The plan is successful because now it’s Shiro’s turn to blush.

“I’ve never taken one of these.”

“Never?! Well. I’m honored to be your first.”

“Please don’t say that ever again.”

Matt laughs, shifting to sit closer to Shiro. He can feel the author’s uneasiness, and he hopes he doesn’t notice his own tension. They have never been this close before, but in less than ten seconds he can tell he likes it there, feeling Shiro’s strong presence by his side and the subtle smell of his shampoo. A bit dizzy, he clears his throat and holds the camera in front of them, in an uncomfortable grip.

“So, you just— hold it and look at this spot. You see?” At the writer’s silence, Matt turns his head to the side, while mumbling “Shiro…?”

He finds brown eyes staring at him intensely, just a few inches away, and his breath hitches. For a moment they just stare at each other, while time seems to stop around them and the air becomes thin, but then, Matt just feels it. A magnetic pull, an irresistible impulse.

 _“Aw, to hell with it,”_ his brain decides, as he closes his eyes and leans forward to cut the few centimeters he needs to kiss Mr. Shirogane. And, unless his foggy brain is tricking him, he is almost sure he isn’t the only one who leans to make it happen.

But the chaste brush of lips doesn’t last longer than a couple of seconds, because Shiro suddenly pulls away from Matt, startling him.

“Sorry,” he says, covering his mouth with his metallic forearm.

“N-no, I’m the one— I mean, nothing to be sorry about. It’s okay,” stutters Matt, a bit hurt by the way Shiro avoids his eyes. That attitude just makes him even more reckless, because much like with the stories he edits, he cannot tolerate dumb misunderstandings in real life. Extending a hand to grab Shiro’s arm, he says: “I’m alright with it. I liked it. I… I like you. A lot.”

It’s like he hit Shiro with a bat in the head, the way he seems suddenly disoriented. In a corner of his mind, he thinks this isn't a normal reaction, yet his fear of ruining everything is not letting him reason appropriately. Much less when Shiro mumbles:

“It can’t be. You must be confused.”

“Confused... What the— How could I be confused when I’m saying this to you in the middle of a project? You think I’d do that?” fumes Matt. He doesn’t know if he is madder at Shiro or himself for being so unprofessional. He can almost hear Coran’s voice scolding him in his head in creepy echoes.

“Of course not,” mumbles Shiro, rubbing his face with his left hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, it’s just— How…?”

“It just happened. I got to know you and you are amazing. I fell head over heels. There’s nothing to be confused about,” argues Matt, leaving behind any reserves he had. Apparently, he lost the game already. He looks down at his own legs. “You're in your right to not like me back, but saying I’m just confused…”

“I’m sorry, Matt, that wasn’t what I wanted to say. That’s not the problem. It’s just—”

“Hey, it’s fine. If you don’t like me back it’s not a problem, it’s your right. In that case, I’m the one who’s sorry. As your editor and all,” mumbles Matt, trying to hide his face.

Shiro drags his hand down his face again, in evident distress.

“I haven’t said that,” he states.

Matt raises his eyes, fearing to get his hopes high. His voice sounds as weak as he feels.

“Then, what is it?” He swallows. “Is it because I’m a man?”

“Of course not,” repeats Shiro, looking absolutely drained, but frowning at these words as if they offend him.

“Are you worried about our job, then? You think this will ruin it?” Matt insists.

Shiro shakes his head, looking more and more exhausted.

“Matt, it’s more complex than that. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

He isn't saying no directly, but he is still tossing him out. Matt, hurt and desperate, just like the night he learned about Shiro’s past and felt left out, simply spouts the words he’ll come to regret later.

“Yeah, well. If you like me back, then say so! You can’t stay like this forever. Thinking about the man you lost instead of giving life a chance.”

Shiro freezes. His knuckles turn white while his hand holds his metallic forearm in sudden stiffness, and Matt knows he has made a mistake, the biggest one he could have made under these circumstances. One of his hands covers his treacherous mouth while the other tries to reach for the other man, but the emptiness of Shiro’s voice stops him midway.

“Who told you that?”

It’s a neutral tone. Somehow, it’s scarier than it would be to hear Shiro yell for once. Horrified, Matt can’t think of any answer but the truth.

“I wanted to know more about you. Coran told me to wait, and I knew it was wrong, but I just— I wanted to know. So I searched and found a list… It didn’t say anything else. I swear that’s all I—”

“Matt.” Shiro’s voice is steady and cold. Nothing about it would alert any ordinary person about the storm brewing inside him, but Matt knows him too well. Too damn well, so he shivers when he hears:

“Please… leave.”

“Shiro, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I—”

“Matt, really. Please, just leave.”

There’s nothing to do before that polite yet terrifying order, even though Matt wants to apologize, wants to beg for forgiveness and make amends. But this isn’t about him. He made sure to make it that way.

In silence, he picks his bag and heads to the door. He peeks at Shiro, who is still sitting in the same position, with his back turned to him. Matt opens his mouth to say something, but can’t find his voice for once. Maybe it’s better that way, he already did enough damage by saying unnecessary words. He leaves, closing the door softly. Like a ghost, he calls the elevator, rides it, leaves the building.

From the street, he looks at Shiro’s window just in time to see the lights turn off, and that’s when it really hits him. He slaps his forehead, hating himself for being an idiot, a loudmouth moron who claims to love someone yet isn’t capable of giving him something as simple as some time and space. Him and his bad habit of razing everything in his path out of impatience, of his obsession with making everything go his way.

He feels like a monster, and he can only pray he didn’t do any real damage to Shiro. He knows he has done a whole lot of damage to himself, but… well. He deserves it.

At least that’s how he feels, shivering in the cold of that dark street, with a knot in his throat and a clean cut in his heart.

 

* * *

 He waits three days, three long, miserable days to call Shiro, only to be immediately redirected to his voicemail. He waits for three more to write him an email that never gets an answer, and one more to emulate a corpse in his own desk, lying there lifeless and useless.

That is, until someone taps on his shoulder with a rolled-up magazine. He raises his baggy eyes and finds one of his youngest colleagues, Lance McClain, standing there and looking royally pissed.

“Hey, Holt. Care to explain what’s with the sudden change?”

“Change?” repeats Matt, a weak echo. That seems to fan Lance’s rage even further.

“What the hell, man? They are giving me your writer with only a few weeks before his last deadline and you act like you don’t care? You think it’s funny?”

Matt blinks, confused, but then he understands and stands up so quickly his chair creaks and almost falls, and everyone glances at him. Ignoring all of his coworkers, including Lance, he dashes to Coran’s office and enters without waiting to be let inside after knocking twice.

The editor-in-chief stares at him, unimpressed.

“Coran, what’s going on?” asks Matt. “What is this change Lance is talking about?”

The old man tugs at his mustache, and his face looks like a wall of bricks.

“Emergency measures. Mr. Kuron needed a change, and I need a manuscript. That’s all.”

Matt collapses in the chair in front of Coran’s desk.

“He… He asked for it?” he asks.

“Yes,” answers Coran, and Matt closes his eyes and puts his hands over them. The old editor sighs before grumbling: “I thought we had a deal. To keep it professional?”

“I’m so sorry,” says Matt. He has no excuse, really. He just sits there, feeling miserable and ready for any scolding or punishment that his boss has for him.

The old editor sighs again.

“For now, just let him be. Both have quite a lot to do, and I’d hate to see any of you ruining your promising careers for an incident like this… Whatever it is,” he says, clearly done with it. Then, pressing his lips, he adds: “What you two need is some time and distance. And, of course, to bring some good novels to my desk. So, _chao chao._ Back to work.”

Matt inhales deeply to recompose himself and nods in resigned agreement. When he is leaving, though, Coran calls for him. He turns around, and the man is looking at him with kind eyes.

“My boy. Just give him some time.”

The shadow of a smile seems to peek out of the corners of Matt’s mouth but quickly fades.

Time is what he didn’t give Shiro before, but now he is afraid of letting him have it, because... what if he uses it to decide Matt is the worst thing to ever happen to him? Or even more terrifying, what if because of his inconsiderate words Shiro sees his progress ruined?

It’s not about the book. It’s about _him_ , about Takashi Shirogane and his wounded heart.

He can’t stand the thought. Against Coran’s advice and even against his better judgment — which isn’t much, honestly— his feet simply lead him to Shiro’s apartment, like every week during the last seven months. His body buzzes at the familiarity of the way, but then it freezes when he rings the door and no one opens. There’s no light coming out from the creaks either.

He slides to the floor, defeated. He calls again, and the annoying voicemail answers like always. He thinks of leaving a pathetic message asking for forgiveness but decides against it.

Apologizing actually feels like a privilege he hasn’t earned yet. Or rather, a privilege he lost when he chose his own insecurities over the ones of the man he is supposed to hold so dear.

He leaves the building and looks around the street. He wonders if it’s because winter is coming, but it looks uglier and darker than ever before.

 

* * *

For almost a month, Matt tries to keep himself functional. His colleagues and even his authors have pointed out sometimes how he seems a bit under the weather, but he dismisses their worries with a smile and a wink.

Whenever he sees Lance, though, he tries to inquire about Shiro’s state, but the young editor is tight-lipped about it.

“Higher-ups orders,” he says, in his usual pissy mood. “You aren’t getting anything from me. Sorry, man.”

He knows which higher-up to blame, thinks Matt bitterly, spotting a ginger head roaming around the editor’s room and staring daggers at it.

Still, he is surprised at his own feelings. After a few weeks of contemplation, and after using his new free time to meet up with some neglected friends —just to be called an idiot by his sister Pidge and a dimwit by his friend Nyma—, it’s still hard to believe for him how much he still cares for Shiro.

He misses him so much it hurts him physically. He misses their time together, their jokes and their conversations. He even misses the anxiety of their deadline, driving him nuts but also pushing him to do his best, because he always felt it went both ways. It was teamwork, dedication…

It was love. Love for their creation, and love for the process behind it. It’s not something Matt gets to experience often. He is more like the Reaper to his authors, and he doesn’t make their works a personal matter. With Shiro, it was different from the beginning.

Ahh, the beginning, how much he longs for those good ol’ times…

That morning he arrives early, to enjoy the short time he can spend alone in the office before the rest of the stressed editors flood the room. He can also freely enjoy his new, not-very-healthy habit of taking out his copy of Garden of Light and staring lovingly at the hard traces Shiro made on the first page in what feels like a century ago.

It takes him a while to notice the strange blue notebook over his keyboard, but its bright color catches his attention. He is wondering who could have left their notes on his desk, but then he sees it: part of a golden bookmark is sticking out of the upper edge. That’s… his bookmark.

Matt grabs it with tense hands and opens it. It's not a notebook, but a printed copy of a story. The bookmark is on the title page. It reads "Sun & Bird".

Trembling fingers delicately turn the first page.

_“Men, in their inherent jealousy of all living creatures, tend to passionately envy a bird’s life. “Ah, how marvelous”, they say, sighing into the wind. “If only I could fly and be free like them! If I could go wherever I want, whenever I want to!”_

_Because birds aren’t supposed to be tied by any of the mundane chains that hold humans down. Birds are born, learn to fly, and since they are smart and also free to do so, they only ever worry about running away from the cruelty of winter. If they succeed, they never know about the cold. They can live in a permanent summer._

_Not this particular bird, though. Not anymore, at least._

_This is the story of a bird who forgot how to fly and got lost in the cold of winter.”_

Matt's eyes dance over the page and his lips twitch. He could recognize this style anywhere, anytime, even when trying to emulate a fable style that doesn’t suit the author at all. His heart won't stop pounding in a loud cadence as he reads the words, soft and heartbreaking at the same time, as a whisper meant only for him.

_“Flying was happiness. Since its birth, this bird loved to fly. It wanted to cross the skies and discover new lands. It loved leaving its nest behind and flying with no destination while chasing the elusive summer._

_Sometimes flying was fighting. Because it was necessary, it would join other birds of its kind against the currents of wind, against bigger birds, against treacherous mists._

_One of these times, when the mist lifted, it found another bird flying by its side. The other bird silently followed it, until both were tired enough to stop and see each other in the eye. And they knew immediately they were meant to fly together because both loved to live without a route and without a nest.”_

Clenching his fists around the pages, the editor feels his heart heavy. The story flows and tells how the two birds never have a nest, but stick together for a long time and during terrible hurricanes.

But he knows what will come. His eyes travel to the paragraph where it starts and they close for a moment before he keeps reading.

_“But the winds were stronger that day. Its wings were crooked, and the bird lost sight of its partner. Desperate, unable to leave the tree where it landed in its fall, it waited for the other bird to come back._

_And it waited._

_And it waited._

_Until the whispers that came from the forest told it that the skies had claimed its partner long ago, and it had waited in vain._

_It was the dusk of Autumn. The bird had to leave, following summer, but its wings were stiff and useless. Its heart was as broken as its wings. It couldn’t fly anymore._

_It could only wait for the unknown and fearsome winter to come and claim it too, alone and grieving.”_

Matt rereads that last phrase until his eyes get misty, and he wipes them furiously. Taking a deep breath, he braces himself for the rest of it. However, even if he can perfectly understand the analogies, a part of him is also curious about where the story is leading. He is only halfway at this point, reading the heartbreaking narration of the wounded bird enduring a cold winter alone for the first time.

_“The cold was ruthless, and the clouds kept the skies covered and out of sight. Yet the bird didn’t mind. It had lost all love for them, resentful and weak. Its broken wings were a permanent reminder of its pain, and the bird gradually forgot the warm embrace of the sun rays over its feathers and the whistle of the wind in its ears. It forgot summer, and it forgot the blue of the sky. It only cowered in a small nest, waiting for the moment when that eternal winter would claim its life like it claimed its partner’s._

_It didn’t count with some creatures from the woods coming to aid it from time to time. They would come and go, pitying it. The bird never asked for their help and never thanked them either, but they still came, asking for nothing in return. They kept it alive through the coldest days, with warm food and soothing songs echoing through the frozen woods._

_Time passed, and the bird was still crooked, but miraculously alive._

_A_ _nd no matter how long it seems to take, seasons always change._

_When Spring came, the sun came back with it.”_

Shaky hands turn the page with a mix of excitement and fear. From this point, Matt doesn’t know what to expect. The brutal honesty of such a simple fable scares him more than he could ever have imagined.

_“When the sun saw the bird asleep in its nest, turning its back to him, he felt intrigued. He liked birds, and the way they would follow him and sing the sweetest songs to welcome him. Yet this bird just lied there, broken and alone._

_“Won’t you come flying to meet me?” he said, radiating light and heat, two things that the bird had forgotten after such a long winter. And like all unknown things, it feared them._

_“I can’t fly”, the bird answered, trying to look away from the sun. But the sun didn't abandon it._

_“Don’t you want to try and fly again? I can help you, my bird. After all, your place is in the sky,” he said, and the bird could understand the sun’s good heart through his blinding rays._

_The sun was generous and insistent, shining every day over its head, even when the bird didn’t want to look at him. And so, slowly, it remembered why it would follow him every year. Little by little, the bird also remembered the sensation of the breeze over its feathers and the smell of the air in a hot summer night, and all those things that would bring it joy before._

_So it made a deal with the sun, and day after day he would encourage the bird to leave the nest and try to fly again. And every day the bird would spread its wings, dusted by sunlight, and let them heal until they could take him far away again.”_

Matt feels his cheeks warm, and he lowers the booklet for a moment, looking around. Luckily, none of his coworkers is there yet, so he is free to make a small choked sound as he wonders if he really can allow himself to be so narcissistic as to assume he is the sun. Could it really be? Biting his lower lip and with his heart about to burst in his chest, he resumes reading.

_“Spring gave way to a hot summer during which the bird, now flying very close to its nest, discovered how much it loved the sun. Even if staying under the sun’s heat could eventually scorch its feathers, and its brightness hurt its eyes when it looked at him for too long, the bird simply loved the sun so much it almost made it forget the cold, the snow… the loneliness. The sun was kind enough to come for a broken bird and wait for it too, and that made it love him even more._

_But, again. The seasons are implacable in their permanent cycle. It was, once again, the dusk of autumn. The skies got greyer, and the sun weaker._

_“You must come with me,” said the sun. “My time here is coming to an end. I can’t stay with you unless you follow me.”_

_“But I can’t fly that high yet,” answered the bird, feeling its heart frozen, and its wings stiff again. Without the sun, the world would lose all color again._

_“I’m sorry, my bird. I can’t reach you anymore if you don’t fly. Please, you have to fly,” said the sun, and his desperation to heal the bird fueled his gentle rays so strongly they started to hurt. They were so strong, they burned the bird’s nest._

_Jumping to another branch, the bird couldn’t stand the sudden cruelty of the sun. “How could you do this to me!” it said, feeling its small heart breaking in half._

_“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention,” said the sun. “I just want you to cross the skies again with me. I’m sorry.”_

_But he couldn’t keep apologizing. Dark clouds covered him and pulled him away, and winter came through, with its sharp winds and black nights._

_The bird stayed there, paralyzed by fear. It discovered it couldn’t stand the cold like before. Not when the warmth of the sun lived within its chest, fueling a new feeling, a desire to fly away and high again. Something forgotten, yet so very dear._

_It was then when the bird realized it had nothing to lose if it flew, and everything to lose if it stayed. It was still hurt and incomplete and scared of the power the sun had, but it wouldn’t stay there for another miserable winter, when it knew that, behind the clouds, the sun was waiting for it to come, full of light and regret._

_Spreading its wings, it flew._

_It fell in the way and was lost in the darkness. But it knew the sun was up there somewhere, so it just flew higher._

_And higher._

_Until its head broke the stormy clouds and, exhausted, it felt again in its feathers the warmth of the sun. His embrace made everything worth it._

_“My bird! You came to me after what I did to you?” he said, ridden by guilt._

_“I came. Because I know what is in your heart, and you must know what is in mine,” said the bird. “I want to stay by your side.”_

_The sun smiled again, and the skies filled with bright light._

_“I wish I could have stayed with you like before. But the sky is really your place, and I love to see you fly.”_

_“It is my place, but it is also yours,” said the bird, planning above the clouds, following the sun in his tireless journey. “And wherever you go, I’ll follow you with the wings you helped heal.”_

_The bird would need to stop sometimes. Its wings would never heal completely, but they were strong enough to take it to unknown lands. Places where the sun would share his light with it, full of life._

_Always together, seeking their eternal summer.”_

The page is sullied by a thick drop of salty water falling from the curve of Matt’s cheek. Aware of it, he wipes his eyes again, this time hiding his face behind his forearm.

 _“He loves me,”_ he thinks, the only thing he can focus on as he suppresses his strong need to sniffle, and instead paws around his desk, barely seeing anything, until he feels the hardness of his phone. He clutches it just when a pair of colleagues enter the room and greet him with animated voices. However, Matt just gives back a short “heya!”, before darting towards the corridor.

As the phone dials Shiro’s number, Matt walks around and then stops in the smoker’s terrace, a small place where everyone goes for their much-needed dose of nicotine. The phone rings, which is already an improvement, but when he hears the sound of the call being picked up, he almost drops his smartphone. He realizes that, deep down, he still expected to be ignored, but the voice on the other side of the line is like a balm of life.

“Hello… Matt?” answers Takashi Shirogane, and Matt Holt forgets how to breathe.

“Hi… it’s me,” he says, the most eloquent thing he can come up with while being deprived of oxygen. There is a short pause, but then Shiro asks:

“Did you read it?”

If there was any doubt that the story was meant for him, this dissipates it. Breathless, Matt answers:

“Yes. Yes, I read it.”

Silence. Matt can’t stand their silence anymore. Not now.

“I want to see you,” he declares. He can hear Shiro taking a deep breath before announcing:

“I’m here.”

“Where?” asks Matt, confused.

“At the publishing house.”

“WHERE?!” repeats the editor, looking around as if Shiro would hide behind the fake plants.

“... At the rooftop.”

This time it’s Matt who takes a moment before answering.

“Wow.”

“Cliché, I know,” admits Shiro. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“No.” Matt laughs, turning around and leaving the smoker’s area. “I mean yes, _very,_  but I have to confess… I actually love, _loooove_ clichés.”

A gasp meets his words.

“I’ve been lied to, then,” says Shiro, his voice impossibly fond, drilling a hole right in Matt’s heart.

And he doesn’t hang up as he runs through the hall and up the three stories left to reach the rooftop. He doesn’t stop to think it’s not nice to hear someone huffing like he is, but he is afraid to let go of their connection as if it could disappear completely.

Instead, when he opens the metallic door to the dusty rooftop, he finds the light of morning and Takashi Shirogane waiting for him just a few steps away. His jaw slacks as he slowly lowers his phone, breathless, sweaty and astonished.

The writer looks back at him, dressed in his long coat and without gloves. His prosthetic shines, and for a moment both stare at each other in awe and maybe a bit of fear. Matt thinks how this type of awkwardness is so different from the one from their first meeting, and the recollection of that cold afternoon at the café comes back to him like a warm wave. The thrill of their first meeting, the softness of Shiro’s voice, the way his heart was beating in that strange way, how his feet would almost float towards his house. From the beginning, it was all crystal clear. The bird may have been rescued by the sun, but the sun went to the bird for more than otherworldly kindness or a mere whim.

The sun simply loved that strong, beautiful bird, emerging from its long winter more beautiful than ever.

His feet propel him forward, but before he can reach Shiro, the writer turns his gaze away and speaks in a low voice.

“I… couldn’t write anything for a while. I couldn’t bring myself to finish our story, not without you there.”

Matt shivers. The word  _our_ seems to resonate in his bones. Shiro laughs shortly, then looks at Matt again. He is slightly blushed, but from this close, Matt notices he looks pale and there are new bags under his eyes.

“I even had to leave the apartment for a while. I hated it with our things there, but not you.” He shakes his head. “Keith wanted to kick me out after two days for being such a downer. And my new editor was so irritated at me... He's young too, but if you think you are a tough guy, I’m sorry to tell you: he is worse,” he says, and his lips stretch into a small smile.

“He… he is?” says Matt, feeling dumb and also a tiny bit jealous.

“Yeah. But he came up with the idea of writing that short story, you know?” says Shiro, and he exhales through his nose, amused, before making a very acute voice. “ _If you gotta take it out, then take it out through words! Aren’t you a writer, for heaven’s sake?!_ ”

That’s a surprisingly accurate imitation of Lance.

“I’m— I’m throwing hands with him!” exclaims Matt, now stepping forward to stand right in front of Shiro, who looks at him still smiling. “Who does that brat think he is?!”

But Shiro just shakes his head again.

“I was mad too, at first. But he was right. After all, I started writing because it made it easier to deal with my feelings. I could take them out and transform them into something beautiful. Something I could actually control.”

He closes his eyes, sighing. Then he opens them again and stares right into Matt’s. The wind is playing with his white hair, and he looks gorgeous under the sun as he says:

“Writing something this simple took me an entire month, Matt. And I think I know why.”

A hand rises slowly and goes to Matt’s forehead. Delicate and stiff metallic fingers tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and Matt almost leans into the cold contact right before that hand rests in the crook of his neck, sending a chill all over his body, not due to the cold touch.

“I’m always in control when I write. That’s why I started. My life may be chaos, but my words are mine. Yet writing this was like looking into a mirror and I just— I couldn’t stand it. Looking at my mistakes and at myself like this. How I lose everything good in my life.”

“But it was me who drove you away!” says Matt, feeling the weight that has lived within his chest coming back to life. “I’m sorry, Shiro. I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. For being so inconsiderate, and just… rushing and running over everything and… and not respecting your times. This whole month, I just wanted a chance to say I’m sorry. Please... forgive me.”

“And I’m sorry for running away instead of confronting you and my feelings. For being so difficult, and so stubborn. And coward. For the longest time, I wouldn’t move a finger to get better. Then you came, and I got scared of how much I liked having you around. I was used to just stay there and let life go by. I didn’t think I deserved to be happy,” confesses the writer.

“But you do! You do, you deserve everything! You—”

A thumb caresses his lower lip, shutting him up. With wide-open eyes, Matt looks at Shiro and his endeared expression.

“I know. I have to at least try, right?” says the writer. Those words, Matt’s motto, sound so convincing in his mouth. The same mouth that crooks into a playful smirk, as he whispers: “I’m starting now.”

Matt doesn’t need a warning, because it feels just _right_. The right moment and the right place to finally close his eyes and feel Shiro’s lips on his, the longed warmth of his skin and the strong arms embracing him in a delicate motion, closing the circle with this moment, the peak of a story they didn’t know they were writing this whole time. The bird and the sun, finally meeting in their promised summer, as he grabs the flaps of Shiro’s coat and gives his all in that kiss, long, wet and messy, so unlike them yet, again… so _right._

The kiss becomes another, and another, when Matt stands on his toes and surrounds Shiro’s neck with his arms, seeking for more of it, printing his lips with pecks and soft touches between the real kisses that taste like something he always craved. They kiss like teenagers, greedy and awkward and nothing like the kisses they write together, always elegant and composed. This thought is what makes Matt laugh when they finally break apart enough for him to open his eyes and meet his partner’s, heavy-lidded and so transparent.

“What’s so funny?” asks Shiro in a raspy voice that makes it hard for Matt to resist the impulse to just kiss him again.

“Nah. I was thinking how cheesy we are. What would our Ed say?”

“I guess the same thing Lance said,” says Shiro, and then he makes that weirdly acute voice again. “' _Geez, man. Get it together already.’_ ”

“I’m seriously gonna kill him. I’m gonna beat him so hard,” grumbles Matt, pouting as he rests his cheek on Shiro’s broad chest. He almost melts right there into a puddle when he feels Shiro rest his own cheek on the top of his head and slowly caress the back of his neck under his messy ponytail.

“Don’t. He really helped us out,” says Shiro, amused. “Even though he called my story ‘a sappy mess’.”

“See?! He knows no respect. I would never.”

When Shiro hums in evident disagreement, Matt separates from him, frowning.

“Hey! You know I would never. I mean, I know I can be a pain in the ass but I’m not that rude… C’mon, stop laughing!”

The author is cackling now with his contagious laugh like a bark, and Matt simply can’t stay mad at him. However, after a while, Shiro shakes his head and gets suddenly serious.

“Yeah… that reminds me. We, uh. We have a problem.”

“What?” asks Matt, squinting. Shiro scratches his own neck with his free hand.

“Well. Since I was blocked I spent a month writing this story. It worked, sure, but…” Matt already knows, but he closes his eyes ready for the impact of the grotesque news. “I… didn’t write a word for our book. Lance gave up and just edited this thing for me out of pity. He said it would be a good posthumous work for when you or Coran decided to end me.”

Under other circumstances, this statement would be the equivalent of an atomic bomb for Matt’s anxious brain. However, it’s somehow impossible to despair with Shiro’s handsome face so close to him, bathed in soft sunlight, all lines sharp, clean and beautiful and, most importantly, oozing with love. He channels instead his own self from months ago, the one who convinced Shiro they could write a bestseller in nine months and was nonchalant enough to ring on his door weekly.

“So. You have…” Matt takes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the calendar. “Two weeks and a day to finish this. Exactly fifteen days.”

“Do I?” asks Shiro.

“Yes, Mr. Kuron. Two weeks and high expectations from the higher-ups,” says Matt, indifferent. Shiro hums again.

“But I don’t have an editor. No one is so crazy to work with me under this tight schedule. What can I do?”

Matt blows air and clicks his tongue as if he was being asked the most annoying thing ever.

“Well… I happen to know an editor with enough lack of common sense to take pity on your situation, sir, if he is available.”

“And is he?” asks Shiro, following the game. Matt shakes his head and flops on Shiro’s chest again.

“Not at all, but for you, he’ll always make an exception. He's in love, the poor sod.”

Shiro’s arms surround Matt strongly.

“Well. Aren’t I lucky.”

“You’ll see how lucky you are this evening when we start our two weeks long trip to hell,” grumbles Matt, but he squeezes Shiro against his body, sighing in relief. “Let me just have this, okay? I know I won’t be able to enjoy the blessings of romance until we are done. We may not even survive…”

Shiro chuckles.

“C’mon. How terrible can it be?”

 

* * *

 He regrets asking that barely two days later. Shiro’s apartment becomes their base, and Matt doesn’t go back to his own during the entire ordeal. Every spare moment, he spends it with Shiro, trying to delay meetings and other deadlines, and also having to stand Lance’s jokes and annoying ‘you deserve it!’ dances. Still, his coworker helps him with his deadlines, and for that he is grateful.

Shiro also lifts his personal coffee ban. He stopped drinking coffee because he needed a regular sleeping schedule, which is exactly what he doesn’t need right now.

“To hell with that,” he says, gulping an entire mug of it, dark and bitter. Matt shouldn’t find that so arousing, definitely. But it’s not like he can do anything about it, anyway.

For two weeks, they live to write and correct. They frantically look for references, discuss plot points, and try to make something decent, so the proofreader editor won’t deem it as utter rubbish and discard it after so much effort on their part. They eat, sleep and basically exist in a constant state of alert and forced creativity. Optimal? No. Necessary? Yes.

At least they are together, though there’s little they can tell each other, and nothing they can really do. Matt steals kisses here and there when he is out of fuel. Shiro dozes off on Matt’s tights when he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. When they can afford it, they nap together on the couch for one or two hours, sleeping like logs. They don’t use the bed. They know its tempting fluffiness will make it impossible for them to get up again, and they are afraid of its hypnotic power.

So, the evening Matt comes back to Shiro’s apartment from the office after delivering a physical copy of their manuscript to Coran, who receives it with an eyebrow raised — still unable to completely forgive Matt for what he called a ‘ _quiznacking_ teenager drama’— the exhausted editor expects to find Shiro asleep already. To his surprise, the writer is sitting in the armchair in his living room, still awake.

“Shiro, I told you to just go to sleep. You deserve it,” Matt scolds him, dropping his bag on the sofa and standing by the writer’s side. His hands go directly to play with his white hair and the cute fluff that falls over his forehead, and the writer leans to him, content.

“I know. It just didn’t seem fair,” he says, taking one of Matt’s hands and kissing it. Then he stares at the wall in front, and Matt follows the trail of his tired gaze.

The whiteboard and the string of pictures are still there, overused and chaotic. Shiro clutches Matt’s hand strongly, and the editor understands. He is nervous.

“You think it’ll go well?” asks the author. Matt smiles, pulling his hand to make him stand up.

“I know we did our best. Which is a lot, coming from you and me. I would know, I’m an expert,” he declares, full of confidence.

He is sure the book will pass the filters and be a success. He is sure, yet it doesn’t matter to him at that moment; the only thing that matters is finally feeling Shiro’s touch and warmth, helping him recharge after the most exhausting fortnight of his life.

Between kisses and caresses, they stumble towards the room and the longed bed. It’s funny how both sigh in relief when their bodies hit the mattress, and even funnier how any attempt to turn the occasion into a steamy one fails because none of them is able to keep his eyes open anymore. Resigned to the reality of their sad situation, they just snuggle together under the sheets, laughing weakly.

And that’s how their first time properly sleeping together in Shiro’s bed they spend fourteen hours straight in deep slumber. It doesn’t matter. When Matt opens his exhausted eyes in the dark of Shiro’s room and feels his weight by his side, it’s so evident to him they are starting a new chapter of their story, and the previous odyssey was the necessary ending that must happen before it. An overused, sappy, dreamy happy ending that the average snob reader probably wouldn’t like.

Not like he cares in the slightest, though.

He really loves clichés, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

* * *

 White snow covers the streets, and Christmas lights and songs fill the packed streets as they walk by the rows of stores, trying to pick a place where to start.

“I honestly have no idea what should I buy for Coran and Keith,” says Shiro, sighing. “I’m so bad at this.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, babe. Gift picking is a skill a man in this killer industry must perfect,” brags Matt, looking at his boyfriend and winking.

A metallic hand surrounds his shoulders, no glove covering it. It’s cold, but through his layers of clothes, Matt doesn’t feel it. He feels, however, the kiss the taller man leaves on his temple, managing to do so even in the middle of a rabid crowd.

“I know, love. I’m counting on you,” he says softly, all low tones and vibrant notes. Matt has to look away. Even one year later, it’s still hard to believe he somehow managed to get a Greek demigod as his partner.

But he did, and he has never been happier. He likes to think Shiro is as happy as he is. At least he knows he trusts him. Otherwise, he would never have stepped into this terrible crowd on his own will. For good measure, Matt holds his boyfriend tight and is attentive to any sign of distress on his part. For now, though, he just looks irritated at this whole Christmas deal, something he can totally empathize with.

Just then, they walk by a showy shopfront, full of colorful posters. A crowd can be seen through the crystal inside that shop where books are chaotically piled in their sections, at least until people take them and then leave them literally anywhere else except where they belong, to the poor employees’ dismay. However, the flashiest sample and poster in front of the store catches Matt’s attention. He stops walking to read it.

_“A necessary trip down memory lane, to a place you have never been to.” - Shey Balmera, YNC._

_“The heartbreaking journey of a man alone against the world - even for heartless people like yours truly" - C. Sendak, Daizabaal Herald._

_Critic’s favorite novel of the year, by the author of the acclaimed “Garden of Life”, T.K. Kuron._

_“BECAUSE SUMMER WILL COME”_

_Now available. Limited stock!_

Matt smirks. He looks at Shiro, who is also reading the showy poster. However, the author only shrugs and gently guides Matt out of the way, and back to walking down the street. Matt snuggles closer to Shiro, as much as their position lets him.

“Ms. Altea painted such a beautiful cover for the book, I don’t understand how could they turn it into such an ugly poster,” comments Shiro, and Matt snickers.

“I hope poor Allura never sees it. But, hey, how does it feel, Mr. Bestseller?”

Shiro buffs, rolling his eyes. But then his sweet eyes land on Matt’s face, and he does his usual gesture of tucking his loose strands of hair behind his ear.

“I believe I got something much better out of it,” he whispers in his soft voice, and Matt simply has to sigh. He is still so lovestruck.

Probably forever.

“Well, I know I’m better than that tacky poster at least,” he brags, taking Shiro’s hand. The man grins.

“Yeah… Sometimes.”

“Hey!”

But as both laugh and walk hand in hand down the street, Matt inhales the chilly air with his heart full of emotions. He also got something much better than having his name on the first page of a bestseller.

He found his own personal and permanent summer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cheesy endings are best endings, you can't change my mind! Let's pretend I know something about publishing houses for the sake of this fluff/drama, yes? [Please check the art for this fic](https://dailycolleenholt.tumblr.com/post/185529845703/i-am-very-excited-to-share-the-illustrations-i-did/) and share it, it's so amazing!!  
> This story is part of a series I've been planning for a while, and of course, all feedback is more than welcome. You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://www.silverineontherun.tumblr.com) and [Twitter!](http://twitter.com/silverineon)
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading!!


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